


Communion

by only_more_love



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Established Relationship, Idiots in Love, Long Live Feedback Comment Project, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, POV Bucky Barnes, Polyamory, Polyfidelity, Praise Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-02
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-08-16 16:18:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16498877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: Bucky wakes up happy.





	Communion

“Cupcake. Sweetness.” Sounds resolve into words that seep, muted, through the hushed haze of sleep, coaxing him toward consciousness. Warm breath dusts across his bare shoulder; Bucky shifts on his left side and makes a lazy, contented sound low in his throat as he curls deeper into the thick, soft pillow that cradles his head. Heaven. He’s in heaven. He doesn’t know how he made it there, and for now, he doesn’t much care, but he’s never leaving.

“Mmm. Love you, gorgeous.” This is mouthed, husky, and dark as the 79% cacao chocolate Stevie eats three squares of after dinner every night, without fail, against the nape of Bucky’s neck. A deliberate hint of teeth and the rasp of facial hair follow the words. Helpless against the heady combination of words that he still can’t let himself take for granted―because Bucky knows better than most how words can be used to call forth the monster that shares his brain and lurks in his body―and honeyed touches, Bucky shivers reflexively and bites his lip.

It doesn’t matter that Bucky’s fully awake now, too many years as a soldier of one kind or another having rendered him hypervigilant and prone to waking at the slightest sound, still, even after the B.A.R.F. sessions Tony arranged for him, the deprogramming, and endless therapy. (The white noise Tony has piped into their rooms helps some with that.) He might be awake, but he feels so relaxed and just _good_ that he’s never leaving this bed, with its cushy pillows, cozy blankets, and warm, soft men. Never.

Calloused hands curve over his hair, radiating lush heat, before they settle on his head, dip in and sift through what he knows must be a nightmare of sleep-mussed strands because he didn’t tie up his hair the night before, working through the tangles with such a profound gentleness that Bucky doesn’t feel a single pinch or harsh tug. All he feels is comfort. He sighs, a soft sound in the dark room, feeling his body go loose and liquid, and those hands stroke, warm and pleasurable, over his scalp, spreading light through every muscle and bone and nerve pathway in Bucky’s body. Chasing away every shadow inside him and lighting him up until he’s sure he must be glowing beacon-bright and hot.

Hands loosely gather up his long hair, winding and holding it out of the way while soft lips descend and nuzzle along his hairline. Tender kisses trail, delicate and drugging, down the back of his neck, whisper along the wing of his shoulder blade, angle down his back. Eyes still shut, Bucky arches his spine and sinks deeper into the pool of sensations.

“Jamie, my beautiful Jamie,” the voice says in a near croon behind him, rustling the hair by his right ear, thick and languid as honey, dripping amber over Bucky’s skin and kindling a small flame deep within his chest and belly. Both the words themselves and the affectionate tone in which they’re spoken, are...They’re a lot. Nearly too much. They tug at the tangled skein of desire―for touch, for mercy, for care, however undeserved―that lies coiled inside Bucky, always, and makes itself known with every restless throb of his old heart. He can’t help it, though; his cock starts to fill. Awash in dawning hunger and hard-won peace, Bucky slowly lets his lungs expand with air.

Tony, then.

He’s the only person who ever calls him Jamie. The only one who dares to.

Because no one but Tony calls him Jamie, not even Steve, the nickname has acquired a certain patina of significance. The sound of it always makes him feel just a touch lighter, no matter how stooped his shoulders are that day, reminding Bucky that he’s not alone anymore. He belongs to someone; they belong to him. He can wander if he wants or needs to, but there is a place for him here, a home, with kindness, healing kisses, laughter, and strong arms that can bear his weight and the weight of his ghosts during those inevitable, interminable moments when, choking on blood, ash, and decay, Bucky swears he can’t bear it anymore.

Tony. Stevie. Jamie.

It’s a tiny, simple thing, but something unequivocally good, something special, nonetheless, just between the three of them, when before there had been too much pain, regret, and more than a single helping of bad memories.

Bucky knows enough―too much, he’s sure both Steve and Tony would say―about bad things and hard things, to easily dismiss good things, however small. Even now, after everything, the memories often sit close to the surface.

_Practice gratitude_ , his therapist likes to say. _Focus on the positive, the victories, however small._

Bucky tries. Oh, how he tries.

Some days are better than others. Some days it’s far easier to remember how he prowled the boundaries of the world as a creature of shadow and terror, as a monster and a weapon, a _thing_ devoid of decency or mercy or compassion, than it is to recall the person that the museum and the history books tell him and Steve swears he was before―or the person he is now, after.

The person he chooses to be.

(He killed Tony’s parents; he has killed so very many people. That knowledge never leaves Bucky; he wears it like a second skin. He shouldn’t forget. Doesn’t want to. But Tony and Steve press forgiveness and acceptance into his flesh with warm hands and soft lips, and that’s something. If it isn’t absolution (and it isn’t) it is still something. It has to be.)

A slow breath, as slow as Bucky can make it, in through his nose for eight, and out through his mouth for eight, too.

Tony rubs his thumb back and forth over his lips, making them tingle, until Bucky finally lets his mouth fall open. When Tony’s thumb slips in and strokes over Bucky’s tongue, Bucky responds by catching it between his teeth, giving it a playful shake, and growling low in his throat.

At that, Tony laughs, his whole body shaking against Bucky’s, nudging the rich, dark sound into Bucky’s ear. How he loves that laugh. It goes straight to Bucky’s dick, so he arches and rolls his hips back just a little― _and oh, isn’t that interesting?_ ―feels his naked ass catch against Tony’s morning wood. The movement makes Tony’s breath hitch; Bucky’s mouth tips into a smile as soon as he hears it. But when Bucky’s eyes open and he starts to roll over, intent on getting both his hands, his mouth, and his everything else all over Tony, the six-foot-tall bundle of sass, muscle, and human sunshine in front of him strikes, faster than a snake, stopping Bucky with an inexorable grip on his shoulders.

“Hold still, Buck.”

“In your dreams, punk.”

“Shhh,” Tony says, the humid warmth of his breath back at Bucky’s ear, ghosting over it, and the very last thing in the world that Bucky wants to do is be still, “be a good boy.” Scratchy and sleep roughened, Tony’s voice slides temptingly over Bucky’s skin. Tony rubs his nose just behind Bucky’s ear, then traces his tongue against the shell of his ear. Bucky gasps, pulling against Steve’s hold. “We’ve got plans for you, sugarplum,” Tony adds, and Bucky can hear the faint smile curling in his voice like smoke tendrils. Bucky’s lips buzz with the urge to get a taste of that smile. No, to devour it.

“F.R.I.D.A.Y., turn the lights on at ten percent and raise the ambient temperature two degrees,” says Tony.

“Yes, boss,” comes the AI’s response.

Steve releases Bucky’s shoulders, but one of his hands slips under the blanket and glides over his hip and thigh. “You heard the man,” he says. His voice turns maple syrup sticky. “Got plans for you, Buck.”

With blackout shades in the windows to help with sleep, the room is always dark if they want it that way. But now, with the dim overhead lights, Bucky can clearly make out Steve’s teasing grin and the promise sparkling in his nothing-but-blue-skies eyes.

Bucky narrows his eyes, intrigued. “What kind of plans?”

Steve’s smile stretches wider, turning enigmatic and more than a little wicked, but he doesn’t answer.

“The good kind, baby,” says Tony, getting up on his knees.

Bucky shifts onto his side and props himself up on an elbow and watches Tony pull the blanket and sheet down to the bottom of the bed. That done, Tony plumps his pillow with gusto and sits it up against the wide headboard. Grasping the hem of his t-shirt, one of Steve’s actually, judging by the paint splotches scattered across it, he pulls it over his head, aggravating his already massive case of bedhead, which Bucky thinks just adds to what’s already a very nice view, and throws it on the floor.

“Would it kill ya to fold it up and put it on the bed instead?” Steve asks in a mild voice but with a wrinkle of disapproval right smack between his eyebrows.

“Probably,” Tony replies, apparently unruffled and unrepentant.

Steve rolls his eyes. “Slob,” he mutters.

“Tight ass,” says Tony, his expression good-natured.

“You know it,” says Steve with a straight face but a cherry-bright flush riding high on his cheeks.

“Oh, Stevie.” Snickering, Bucky pokes Steve in the side, just for the pleasure of watching him wiggle because of his ticklishness. He gets a solid shove in return, and it takes him back to when they were nothing more and nothing less than a couple of dumb kids. (Except that this Steve is much, much bigger, and much, much stronger.) In some ways, maybe they still are. Probably just wishful, sappy thinking.

God, he loves these beautiful assholes.

Leaning back against the headboard, Tony tilts his chin up in challenge and crooks a finger at Bucky, urging him closer. “Come here.” Remnants of a fond smile linger around the periphery of his mouth and at the borders of his eyes, melting Tony’s words into an invitation.

For the most part, the three of them make it work, but Bucky knows there have been times when Tony’s felt on the outside of the shared history and warped but never wholly broken chains that bind Bucky and Steve to each other. Bucky loved Stevie when that kind of love had to remain a secret, like something dirty and polluted, even though it was never, ever that, consigned to dark corners and shadowy moments. Bucky loves him now when he can more safely kiss his familiar mouth in full sunshine if he wants to, on a street corner or in a grocery store.

But Bucky loves vivid, vital Tony, too, who sits with him on bad nights and holds his hands―both of them, in spite of what Bucky stole from him and can never return, however much he wants to―and wipes the sweat from his clammy skin with a cool, wet washcloth, or huddles on the bathroom floor with him and talks and talks until the sound of it is rough, unhewn rock, turning his voice into a trail of breadcrumbs for silent Bucky to follow out of the black places he stumbles into sometimes.

A light flickers in Tony that caught and held Bucky’s eye. And if Bucky would follow Steve into hell (he would) he loves Tony just as fiercely. It’s...good that Tony can watch him and Steve play and understand that he, too, is an essential piece of their weird puzzle.

So, when Tony says, again, “Come here,” Bucky shrugs but does as requested.

Big brown eyes shot through with threads of gold plus two words spoken in that whiskey-burn voice shouldn’t get Bucky hard so fast. Unfortunately, his dick has never listened to reason.

He thinks he knows where this is going, but when he happily settles astride Tony’s lap, knees pressed into the bed on either side of his hips, Tony just smiles up at him, pupils dilated, and shakes his head. “No,” he says in a patient tone as he lifts his hand and runs his work-roughened fingertips in a warm arc over Bucky’s face from cheekbone to chin. “The other way. Turn around.” As Bucky raises himself up, Tony spreads his legs in a V. “Put your back right here”―he taps his chest with his index finger―“get nice and comfy.”  

 

**Author's Note:**

> The world is burning down; I'll just be here in the corner, writing mushy smut. Thank you for reading. Comments, kudos, etc. are love. Seriously. :) 
> 
> You can also find me at [tumblr](http://onlymorelove.tumblr.com).
> 
> This story is part of the [LLF Comment Project](https://longlivefeedback.tumblr.com/llfcommentproject), which was created to improve communication between readers and authors. This author invites and appreciates feedback, including:
> 
>   * Short comments
>   * Long comments
>   * Questions
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